Unforeseen Affections
by Waltzin Atlanta
Summary: After the Burning Plains, Murtagh allows Eragon and Arya to attempt to release him from the oaths he swore to Galbatorix. As they work together, unexpected feelings and relationships blossom. MurtaghxArya, EragonxNasuada—DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story takes place a few weeks after the Burning Plains, with the assumption that Eragon and Roran rescued Katrina from Helgrind and returned to the Varden at Aberon.

Pairings: MurtaghxArya, EragonxNasuada

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 1

The city of Aberon reeked of cautious celebration. Nearly a month had passed since the Battle of the Burning Plains, and the victory, though costly, was still fresh in the soldiers' minds. Thoughts of defeating Galbatorix entered consciousnesses more and more frequently, and hope sprung anew from memories of the Empire's retreat.

In the center of the city lay Borromeo Castle, and within, a large luxurious room contained the hushed figures of five people, brought together by their common dream of overthrowing Galbatorix. Roran and Katrina, newly reunited, held hands as they sat side by side on the hard wooden chairs surrounding the large table in the center of the space. Arya occupied a chair near them, her back stiff and straight, her dark hair shadowing her face and the sorrow in her blazing green eyes. Nasuada face was contorted into a mournful expression as she surveyed the countenances of those around her, her gaze lingering on Eragon, who sat next to her.

The heavy silence surrounded the group, reminding them of their victory, but also of what had been lost. Murtagh's betrayal weighed heavily on all of them, but none more so than Eragon.

"I still can't accept it," he whispered. "The son of Morzan?" He raised his face to meet the eyes of the others, then lowered his gaze.

"Eragon," Nasuada started softly. "You have accomplished incredible things: you defeated Durza, you slew countless enemies, you held your own against the Red Rider." Her last statement was uttered softly, as if she could still not bring herself to admit Murtagh's loyalty to Galbatorix. She swallowed and continued. "Do you think the knowledge of your father erases that? You did what no one else could—your identity does not change that."

Arya stirred at the mention of Murtagh, and her gaze shifted from Nasuada to Eragon. The latter looked up at the movement, then turned away, the memory of her last rejection fresh in his mind. Instead, he focused on Nasuada, who offered him a small smile.

"Thank you," he told her softly. Her words deeply affected him, and to some extent eased his pain. A lump rose in his throat as he thought of his brother, Murtagh. "You cannot understand how much that means to me."

He looked briefly at Arya, who unwaveringly met his eyes. With a sudden movement, she stood, and taking her leave of Nasuada, exited the tent. Roran, silent until now, also left his seat and bowed slightly toward Nasuada.

"My Lady," he addressed her. "Thank you once more for providing us with food and lodging. You have given us hope." He took her hand and kissed it awkwardly, then took Katrina's arm as they left the tent, leaving Eragon and Nasuada alone.

"Eragon," she said again. "Do not be ashamed of who you are. Without you, the Varden would have failed long ago."

"Thank you," he repeated. "But without your leadership, we would have been slaughtered by the Urgals in Tronjheim after the battle. Your father would be proud."

A tear rolled down her cheek at the mention of Ajihad, but she hastily wiped it away.

"Do you truly believe we can defeat Galbatorix?" she asked, worry and uncertainty creasing her dark brow.

"We have a greater chance now than ever," Eragon answered. "The time will come soon, and we will be ready."

"Your words hearten me, Rider," she said, a trace of a spark reentering her black eyes. She reached out and softly caressed his face, her eyes locking with his, then she dropped her hand as if burned.

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I forget my place; I should not have laid my worries upon your shoulders. Please excuse me." She turned to retreat into her bedroom, but Eragon caught her arm and prevented her from continuing.

"You have overstepped no bounds," he countered. "I will gladly shoulder your concerns if it will lighten your burden."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, sharing another glance with him before he broke the contact and walked out the door.

* * *

Deep in Urû'baen, a young man lay panting on the cold stone floor of Galbatorix's castle. The pain from this most recent torture left Murtagh feeling utterly exhausted. Standing above him was the King himself, a look of rage upon his inhuman features. 

"I explicitly told you to capture them at the Burning Plains," Galbatorix snarled. "And yet, in all your incompetence, you failed. The Ra'zac had them cornered at Helgrind: you had every opportunity to seize them, and yet, _still_ you failed. 'Capture Eragon and Saphira, and bring them back here alive,' I told you, and you are unsuccessful at every turn!" His voice rose to a shout, and Murtagh winced at the ache in his head.

"You are the son of Morzan!" the King veritably screamed, anger in every syllable. "I expected more! You will leave for Aberon tomorrow, capture both of them, and bring them to me! I will not accept another failure!" Murtagh gasped as Galbatorix uttered a few short words in the Ancient Language, causing a new wave of pain to wash over him. He writhed on the floor for a few seconds until Galbatorix released the spell.

He raised his head several inches off the floor, high enough to see the King turn away from him, his black cloak swirling around his tall body, and Murtagh knew he was dismissed.

* * *

He got shakily to his feet, and proceeded into the hallway, walking slowly through the winding corridors. He reached his room and collapsed onto his bed, still breathing heavily, then reached out mentally for his dragon, Thorn. As he expected, Thorn had listened to Murtagh's conversation with Galbatorix through his mental connection with his rider, and he was concerned with their task. 

_I don't know_, he said worriedly to Murtagh. _Doesn't this all seem rather rash and risky? I understand Galbatorix wanting to capture Eragon and Saphira: his entire plan is hinged on the two of them. But it still seems rather . . . stupid, really. Attacking the capital of Surda, armed with thousands of soldiers, a powerful elf, and another rider?_

_Don't let the King hear you saying that_, Murtagh commented dryly. _He might have you locked up for suggesting that anyone could possibly defy him and live. _

_I'm too valuable to confine in a prison_, Thorn retorted. _Without us, he'd have to leave the castle and do his dirty work himself!_

_Still arrogant, aren't you? _Murtagh joked, a splinter of strength and good humor returning to him. He smiled for a moment before becoming serious again. _But you're right, this entire thing seems unplanned, and if I dare say so, quite likely to be unsuccessful. You know the King, though, and he's not likely to let us off the hook. _

_And what of your brother?_ Thorn asked tentatively. _Does Galbatorix know that you purposely let him escape?_

_He didn't speak of it_, Murtagh answered, his face becoming inscrutable at the mention of Eragon,_ but I'm sure he knows of it. Why else would he have made me swear additional oaths in the Ancient Language?_

_You're right. _Thorn contemplated the issue for a moment, then became protective. _You should get some sleep if we have to leave tomorrow._

Murtagh grunted his agreement, then took off his boots. Too tired to wash the sweat and grime from his face, he merely adjusted his pillows and blankets and rolled over, falling asleep instantly.

* * *

Murtagh awoke early the next morning, a cold sweat blanketing his body. He rolled out of bed, wincing at the various aches and pains from his torture. Walking to the corner of his small room, he washed his face in the basin and surveyed his face in the mirror. He looked rough, he noted, observing the half-wild look in his deep brown eyes. He frowned, then shaved the stubble off his cheeks and chin and ran his fingers through his uncombed dark brown hair, pushing it off his forehead. 

Turning away from the mirror, he grabbed a leather pack and stuffed it with the necessities: food, a change of clothes, and a small flask of faelnirv, something Galbatorix had given to him a while ago. He strapped Zar'roc to his belt, relishing the feel of his inheritance in his hand. Securing his bow and quiver on his back, he exited the room, mentally contacting Thorn and instructing him to meet him in the courtyard. He considered speaking with Galbatorix again and announcing his departure, but decided against it, remembering the King's fury the previous night.

Walking down the passages of the castle, he shuddered, the dark and cold atmosphere still giving him a chill, despite living there for most of his life. He sighed with relief as he reached the open courtyard and caught sight of Thorn, who was waiting.

_Ready?_ the dragon asked him as Murtagh seized the appropriate saddle from a small rack mounted on the stone walls surrounding the area. Fastening the straps, Murtagh vaulted himself onto his dragon's back and tied the pack onto the saddle.

_As ready as I ever will be, _Murtagh answered, grimacing as he thought of the task ahead of him. He gripped the saddle with his legs and braced himself as Thorn took off, leaning into the wind as they soared above the walls of the city. Murtagh felt Thorn's exhilaration at being able to fly, and it seeped into Murtagh's consciousness as well, lightening his rather dim mood.

* * *

They flew for the remainder of the day, finally stopping to make camp on the border of Surda. Murtagh started a small fire and ate a hasty meal, then spread his bedroll on the ground. Trusting Thorn to keep watch, he lay down and slept. 

The next morning, they set off again, flying high above the clouds as to not be spotted by the rebels. After traveling for most of the morning, they reached Aberon and started to descend, trying to choose the best place to land.

* * *

At the castle, an alarm sounded as the Red Rider and his dragon prepared to land near Borromeo Castle. A flood of archers moved toward the battlements, loosing their arrows at the oncoming target. A swift word from the rider deflected them, and the dragon continued his dive. Not far away, Eragon mounted Saphira, preparing for aerial combat. Nasuada approached them, however, and stopped them. 

"Wait," she addressed the two of them. "Let him land. You and Arya will be here if he tries something with magic, and we have him surrounded. Let us see what he wants."

Reluctantly, Eragon complied, but stayed on Saphira. Beside Nasuada stood Arya, her bow strung and face expressionless. Commanding the archers to hold their fire and allow Murtagh to land, Eragon drew the sword he had borrowed from Orrin.

Murtagh finally guided Thorn to the ground, and the dragon landed gingerly, inspecting the circle of archers surrounding him.

Eragon and Saphira stepped forward. "What do you want?" Eragon asked his brother warily.

"The same thing I wanted last time," Murtagh responded with a twisted smile. "To capture you and Saphira."

"Then I ask you the same question," Eragon said, pity overtaking his features. "Will you not allow me to try freeing you from Galbatorix's bonds?

A pained look crossed Murtagh's countenance, and his face tightened. "I have sworn additional oaths in the Ancient Language," he answered. "None but Galbatorix have the power to release me."

"Please, Murtagh," Eragon began, desperation entering his voice. "Let us try; I'm sure we can work out something!"

"My answer has not changed, little brother," Murtagh said, uttering his last two words with contempt. "I come only to take you and Saphira to Urû'baen, as my orders direct me."

He made to dismount, but a movement at Eragon's side caused him to hesitate. Arya, silent until now, stepped from Saphira's shadow and addressed Murtagh.

"Do you not remember, Murtagh, the man who gave you the scar that disfigures your back?" Her green eyes drilled into his, as if speaking a language of their own. Desperation, though veiled, was in her voice, and the realization of the Varden's defeat if Murtagh remained loyal to Galbatorix impassioned her argument. "Do you not remember the pain and torment your father caused you? Your life was miserable because of him, and yet you serve the same man! Galbatorix uses you, a puppet to do his bidding, and he means you nothing but hatred and harm. You are correct: the bonds he placed upon you are strong, but I will do all I can to see them reversed. Will you not try, if not for your own sake, then for that of the innocent?"

Murtagh scrutinized her, seeming to contemplate her words. He looked at Eragon, then Nasuada and the cluster of warriors before his gaze returned to Arya. At last, he came to a decision.

"I will try, elf," he answered finally. "I will try."


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all of those who reviewed!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 2

After Murtagh's reluctant agreement, Nasuada immediately summoned Eragon, Arya, and Orik to her rooms, as well as the man in question. Thorn was taken to the courtyard where Saphira was to guard him. In Nasuada's small suite, a heated debate raged.

Arya, Eragon, and Nasuada were in favor of trying to free Murtagh, but Orik would hear nothing of it.

"This is the traitor who killed Hrothgar!" he yelled, his face red from anger and his beard flying. "Why should we shelter him? He deserves to be tortured and killed!"

Murtagh shot Orik an irritated glare. "Have I not reminded you, time and time again, that I was _forced_ to do Galbatorix's bidding?" he asked, frustration evident in his voice.

Orik grunted, but he refrained from further accusations, though he continued to glower at the Red Rider.

It was Nasuada who came to a compromise. "Eragon and Arya will start their work tomorrow," she stated. "Orik, if you feel that you still cannot trust Murtagh, you may observe Eragon and Arya as they research."

She then dismissed Eragon, Arya, and Orik, leaving Murtagh alone in the room with her.

"I've made arrangements for your rooms," she said quietly. She motioned to a small boy in the corner, who immediately stepped forward. "Kaden will show you to them."

Murtagh made no comment, but met Nasuada's eyes, which was more than he had done all night. Kaden opened the door and stepped into the hallway, signaling Murtagh to do the same.

Murtagh followed the young boy through the corridors, noticing how people kept shooting him fearful glances. Any dwarf he passed immediately turned their back on him, and even those who had fought with him at Farthen Dûr now shunned him. He contacted Thorn, who was not faring much better under the scrutiny of Saphira.

_I swear, _came Thorn's exasperated voice. _I can't even shuffle my wings without her baring her teeth and threatening me!_

Murtagh laughed, his expression becoming sober as Kaden announced his room. Murtagh slowly opened the door and observed his surroundings. The room was adequately furnished, but by no means as luxurious as Nasuada's. He dropped his pack on a wooden chair in the corner and laid his bow and Zar'roc against the wall. He then went to the small but sturdy bed near the back and lay down, his mind sinking into a monotonous haze.

His thoughts wandered as the hour turned, but he was jolted out of his reverie by a soft knock at the door. A moment later, the hinges creaked as a person entered. Sitting up, Murtagh saw Nasuada, dressed in a sheer white nightgown that sharply contrasted with her dark skin.

Murtagh, stood, confused, words forming in his throat. Nasuada quickly crossed the room and lightly placed a slender finger on his lips, silencing him.

"Murtagh," she whispered. "I am so sorry—for everything. I cannot possibly imagine the torment you went through under Galbatorix's control. I am so sorry."

This time it was Murtagh that cut her off.

"Nasuada," he said. "It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

She stepped closer to him, so that her face was mere inches from him. She seemed slightly hesitant, but a strange light was kindled in her eyes. "Do you remember the first time I visited you, when you first came to the Varden?"

He stared at her, looking deep into her eyes. "I do," he acknowledged. "I do remember."

"And do you know how I felt, the first time I saw you?"

Murtagh froze, realizing where she was headed. "Nasuada," he said softly. "Nasuada, stop."

She looked surprised. "Murtagh?" she questioned, sensing the change in his demeanor. "What's wrong?"

He sighed heavily, and stepped away from her. "Nasuada, you can't do this—we can't do this. I'm not the man you met in Tronjheim. I've changed—Galbatorix has changed me. I'm no good for you. You must not see me anymore."

"Do you think I care what Galbatorix has done to you?" she asked, looking hurt that he had suggested it. "You are still Murtagh—nothing he has done has changed that."

"Oh, but it does." He laughed, a bitter sound, mocking himself—mocking what he had become. "I'm a murderer: I've killed thousands, I've learned magic that allows me to do wicked things. I've changed," he repeated. He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "Do not come here anymore, Nasuada. I'm different now; I do not deserve you. It would be cruel of me to allow you to continue. Do not come here anymore."

Nasuada took a step backward, tears shining in her dark eyes. "If that is what you wish, Murtagh," she said, sadness clear in her words. "If you so desire to be rid of my presence, I shall trouble you no more."

Before Murtagh could speak, she had traversed across the room and opened the door. Turning back to face him, she said simply, "Goodbye, Murtagh." The white material of her gown was the last he saw of her before she exited the room and shut the door.

* * *

The next morning, Murtagh met with Eragon and Arya in the castle's library. Orik leaned against a nearby wall, a scowl disfiguring his dwarven features. He cast a distrustful glance at Murtagh, but remained silent. Arya sat at a small round table covered with several stacks of books and scrolls, her hair held back by her customary leather headband. Eragon sat opposite her, and he pointed to the seat next to him, motioning Murtagh to sit as well.

Taking his seat, Murtagh picked up the scroll closest to him and read the first few lines. It was a manuscript a few decades old that documented the reversal of oaths.

_So there's a chance after all_, Murtagh said wryly to Thorn. _Maybe they really can free me._

_You'd better hope so, _Thorn replied. _Otherwise, Galbatorix will fry your ass._

_Thanks for the support, _the rider commented sarcastically. _I'm glad to know of your everlasting sympathy for my position._

_Anytime,_ came the response, and the connection was severed.

Murtagh smiled slightly at his dragon's cynicism, then his mind returned to the matter at hand. Arya was studying him seriously, her brilliant eyes holding his own.

"We need to know everything you swore to Galbatorix," she explained. "It will help to find the appropriate words to neutralize your bonds."

Murtagh sighed and leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "He made me swear basically everything it is possible to swear: allegiance to him, allegiance to the Empire, as well as various other things concerning specific missions."

"Well, that makes our task harder," Eragon remarked. Murtagh glared at him, unappreciative of the comment. Eragon gulped, then added, "We'll just have to spend a little more time."

The three of them spent the next hour and a half scanning the various texts, looking for anything applicable to the current circumstance. A small pile of pertinent books lay next to a much larger pile of discarded scrolls. Murtagh groaned, his head in his hands. It was going to take an eternity to free him, he realized. He began to question if it was even worth the trouble.

Eragon seemed likewise frustrated. Casting aside the pile of texts, he stood. Taking his leave of Arya and Murtagh, he exited the room, Orik following him. Murtagh remained at the table, his figure slumped dejectedly. Only Arya seemed undaunted. After several moments, she too left her chair, lingering for several seconds. Murtagh looked up and met her eyes. She smiled slightly, offering him some small token of encouragement.

"Do not allow your service to Galbatorix let you forget who your are," she said, her musical voice raising his spirits somewhat. "It was not by choice you were born Morzan's son, and it was not by choice you served your father's master." She locked her gaze with him for several seconds, then turned and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks a bunch to those who reviewed! To the people that felt sorry for Nasuada, all I can say is that she will be finding "consolation" very, very soon.

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

­ 

Chapter 3

After his session with Eragon and Arya, Murtagh immediately returned to his room, not wanting to give anyone an opportunity to express their hatred. Not long after his arrival, a knock once again sounded on his door. This time, it was Eragon, not Nasuada, who entered.

Motioning Eragon to sit in the chair, Murtagh took a defensive stance, cross-legged on his bed with his back against the wall. Eragon studied him for a moment, something obviously on his mind, but seemingly hesitant to begin a conversation.

"How have things been for you?" he asked mindlessly, seconds later cringing at the stupidity of the question.

"Everything's been great!" Murtagh replied, sarcasm oozing from his voice. "Galbatorix does make wonderful conversation—when he's not torturing you. But of course, you must have been having a _terrible _time, holed up with the Varden!"

"We've been having a hard time, too," Eragon replied defensively. "When you allied with the Empire, we had to fight another Rider, in addition to being incredibly outnumbered."

Murtagh's face darkened with anger. "How many times must I tell you?" he spat, his words short and clipped. "I did not _ally_ with the Empire; Galbatorix _forced_ me to swear allegiance to him!" He stood, his hands balling into fists.

"I don't suppose you know what it's like, do you?" he questioned Eragon, striding over to where his brother sat. "Serving a cause that you've opposed your entire life? Don't come to me for sympathy!"

At his words, Eragon too stood up, a scowl on his face. "Don't accuse me of anything," he addressed Murtagh, his voice low. "I've had a hard life, too."

"A hard life?" Murtagh snorted. "Have you been in danger since the day you were born? Have you been mistrusted by everyone you've come into contact with because your father was Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn? Have you been imprisoned because of your parents—something you could not control? Don't tell _me_ that you've had a hard life!"

"You forget that Morzan was also my father," Eragon reminded him. "Did you not yourself give me the information?"

"You're right, _brother_." Murtagh uttered the last word with contempt, as though the very idea was ridiculous to him. "I'm sure it was no easy feat to live your life, unaware of your identity, and therefore free of the consequences!"

Eragon's face flushed, and his anger seemed to heighten. He made no verbal response, but instead shoved Murtagh. "Get away from me," he growled threateningly.

"Or what?" Murtagh laughed. "You'll give another display of your spectacular fighting skills, like you did at the Burning Plains?" He made to punch Eragon, who ducked and missed the blow. He retaliated by kicking Murtagh in the shin, then slammed him back against the wall.

Murtagh grunted in pain, then using the wall as leverage, pushed Eragon off of him. Taking advantage of his brother's momentary imbalance, he punched him in the face, causing a nosebleed.

Wiping the injured structure on his tunic, Eragon dived for Murtagh's legs, dragging him to the floor. They wrestled violently, both struggling to gain the advantage. Eragon kneed Murtagh in the stomach, but Murtagh landed a vicious uppercut to Eragon's jaw. Finally, Murtagh managed to pin Eragon, who continued to thrash about, despite Murtagh's victory.

"Get out," Murtagh hissed, getting off his brother so that he could stand up. "Get out!"

Eragon got slowly to his feet and glared at Murtagh, his eyebrows contracting. He stalked off and exited the room, slamming the door behind him. Murtagh sighed and returned to his bed.

* * *

Eragon strode quickly down the halls of the caste, his feet pounding angrily on the stone floor. In his haste, he failed to notice another figure walking quickly down the corridor, likewise preoccupied. Eragon ran into the woman, nearly knocking her to the ground before he realized that it was Nasuada. 

"Eragon," she gasped. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, my lady," he said, still agitated after his fight with Murtagh. He realized that signs of the confrontation had manifested themselves on his face in the form of a rapidly rising black eye, and Nasuada took little time in noticing this.

"What happened to you?" she asked, concern radiating from her voice.

Eragon hesitated, not wanting to trouble the young leader, but not wanting to keep anything from her either. "Murtagh and I got into a . . . disagreement," he responded, expecting her to berate him for physically fighting.

Instead, she merely sighed at the mention of Murtagh. "It seems he no longer wishes to be in my presence either," she said sadly, looking at the floor. Eragon made no remark, unsure of what she meant. Had she gone to Murtagh, perhaps hoping to rekindle the attraction the two had shared at Farthen Dûr? Not wanting to presume too far and possibly offend Nasuada, he paused.

He carefully considered the woman in front of her. Despite her fine gown, her normally straight and proud figure slumped dejectedly. Something was obviously wrong, and Eragon cared too much about her to let the matter go unnoticed.

"Milady," he began tentatively. Nasuada looked up.

"Eragon," she said, pain clear in her eyes. "We are in private. Please, call me Nasuada."

Surprised by this informality, Eragon continued. "Nasuada, I don't know what has happened, but I suspect it has something to do with Murtagh." Gaining no response, he assumed his assumptions to be correct. He decided to take a chance. Holding his breath, he tentatively ventured ahead. "Nasuada, his rejection means nothing. How many other women have accomplished as much as you? None that I can think of," he said, his voice softening. "He is not worthy of you."

He could tell by the tears that filled her eyes that his assumptions were indeed true. Hoping to comfort her, he placed his arm gently around her shoulders, drawing her close to him.

"Nasuada, you are beautiful," he continued. "He must be blind not to realize it."

She looked up at him, hope rekindled in her face. "Eragon," she spoke his name softly, appearing to hang on to his every word. "Do you truly mean that?"

He carefully placed his calloused hand underneath her chin, and lifted her face up to meet his. "Of course I do," he answered her sincerely, looking deep into her eyes. She met his gaze, seemingly unable to break away.

"Nasuada," he whispered. She tilted her face up to his. Moving slowly, Eragon lowered his head until his lips found hers. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed her tenderly, hoping to remove the pain she had suffered from Murtagh's rebuff. She moved her arms to encircle his neck, melting into his embrace. Eragon licked her lips, gently parting them so his tongue could enter her mouth. She moaned, gripping him more tightly, and returned his kiss. Finally, she pulled away, her eyes finding his.

"Eragon," she began breathlessly, but he silenced her.

"Nasuada," he breathed. "Do not let him trouble you anymore." He pulled into a tight embrace, stroking her hair as her head rested on his shoulder. They stayed in the position for a long time, a mutual comfort.

* * *

­­­­­­­­The atmosphere sagged with tension the next morning as Arya, Eragon, and Murtagh once again met in the library to continue their research. Eragon glowered at Murtagh, and the latter said nothing, keeping his eyes down and focused on the scrolls he was reading. Arya, immediately aware of the strain between the two, coolly observed the proceedings. 

The dwindling pile of relevant texts seemed miniscule to Murtagh, whose hope of being free nearly nonexistent. Galbatorix would understand his change of plans, he realized, and soon he would come after him. He cringed, thinking of the torture he would receive when Galbatorix finally learned his true intentions.

"This will never work," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "We'll never find a solution."

"Then why waste time trying?" Eragon asked venomously. "If you're so unwilling, we should just give up now and send you back to Galbatorix!"

Murtagh looked up at him, hurt evident on his face, but Eragon had already turned and left the library. Shaking his head, Murtagh looked at Arya, who steadily met his gaze.

"Heed him not," she said, her clear voice washing over him. "He is rash and young in the ways of the world. He will come to understand."

"I hope you're right," Murtagh told her, pushing his hair off his face. "It just seems so impossible." He dropped his head into his hands, muffling his words. "What if it doesn't work?" he asked, his voice becoming desperate. "What if you can't free me, and I have to return to Galbatorix? All my life I have been under his control: I have lived in his city, shared his servants, dined with him, and now that I am away from him, I cannot imagine returning!" He lifted his head, his face contorted in anguish. "I would rather die than serve him again!" At that, he slumped down on the table, resting his head on his arms. He shuddered, then felt a slender hand upon his back. He sat up, and felt Arya remove her fingers, her shining eyes holding his own. She surveyed him for a moment, then spoke, her voice soothing him.

"When I was imprisoned in Gil'ead," she began, "I was under the control of the Shade, Durza. Galbatorix's orders were to extract any information concerning Ellesméra, the Queen, the Varden: anything that would aid him. Durza's means of following these orders were, harsh at best." She paused for a moment, her features sobering as she recalled the pain she had suffered. "Every day, I was tortured mercilessly at his hands. Every device they could think of was used on me, and every night I was given a potent poison, the _Skilna Brah_, in hope that I would reveal some information. For months, this continued, until Durza decreed that I was to come before the King. At that point, I had no hope of escape."

Murtagh watched her, noting that her smooth face bore no signs of the horrible wounds she had suffered. Her black hair framed her pale skin, flowing over her shoulders. Her bright green eyes entranced him, and he was momentarily struck by her beauty.

"At that point, despair overtook me," she continued. "I contemplated allowing death to take me, so that I would not betray my people. Within a week of appearing before the King, I was saved—rescued by yourself and Eragon."

Hearing her last words, Murtagh laughed bitterly. "So that's what the moral of the story is?" he asked, harshly. "When all seems lost, Eragon will save you?"

Arya contemplated him calmly, seemingly unaffected by his outburst. "No, Rider," she answered, with perfect poise. "That is not what I meant. My message is: do not despair, for when all seems lost, there is still hope."

With that, she stood. Her lips curving in a faint smile, she inclined her head toward Murtagh and left the library.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to my reviewers!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

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Chapter 4

Walking down the halls of Borromeo Castle, Eragon's subconsciously made his way to Nasuada's room. In his rage, he had forgotten the events of the previous night, and thought of the young woman only as the leader of the Varden.

Nasuada, it appeared, had not so easily suppressed the memory. Opening the door at Eragon's knock, she blushed slightly. Only then did he realize the potential awkwardness of the situation—how they had parted the night before, each unsure how to act around the other.

"Eragon," she greeted him, sounding slightly embarrassed. She had not expected him to come to her, and she did not expect what he did next.

Impulsively stepping closer to her, he took her hands in his and gazed intently at her.

"Do you regret it, Milady?" he asked in a low voice. "Do you wish that I never made such a move?"

She surveyed him attentively for a moment, not breaking the eye contact. She took a deep breath. "No," she whispered faintly. "Indeed, I thank you. You paid me more notice than anyone has. I truly appreciate it."

Eragon paused for a moment, keenly aware of the attraction between the two of them. He considered his relationship with Nasuada. He cared deeply for her, both as the leader of the Varden and as a woman. She was magnetic, drawing him to her like a thief to money. He wanted her, wanted to feel her in his arms, her soft lips pressing against his own. He decided to take the risk.

"And would you regret, it Nasuada," he began, addressing her informally by her first name, "if I were to do it again?"

She gasped softly, her eyebrows contracting slightly at his question. She tentatively reached out and caressed his face.

"No," she answered finally. "I wouldn't."

Her answer surprised him, but simultaneously pleased him. He leaned down, planting a gentle kiss on her lips. One of her hands found his head and she entwined her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Her lips parted, inviting him—tempting him to enter. He did so eagerly, his tongue meeting hers, lightly tracing designs on the roof of her mouth. She moaned, deepening the kiss, her pain washing away. She lost herself in his embrace, hoping it would never end.

It could not last forever, though, and eventually they broke apart, gasping for breath.

"Eragon," whispered. "I'm sorry. I spent so much time thinking about Murtagh—hoping he would come to me—that I didn't notice you. I don't know how I could have—you have done more for me than anyone else. I'm sorry, Eragon, for any pain I may have caused you."

"Do not trouble yourself, Nasuada," he told her, his warm breath sending chills through her. "Any wounds you may have caused have been long-since healed."

He pulled her into a tight embrace, rocking her slightly. She sighed, content to remain with him.

* * *

­­Murtagh couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned on his bed, repeatedly rearranging his pillows, but to no avail. Everyone seemed to hate him, he realized. Nasuada now avoided him, Eragon was openly angry with him, and even Thorn seemed evasive, almost always in the company of Saphira. Only Arya remained unaffected, but her unemotional demeanor applied to everyone—enemies and friends alike. 

Rolling out of bed, he put on his boots, deciding to go for a walk. The confinement of the castle made him uptight, and he suddenly desired fresh air, the feel of the wind on his face. Leaving his room, he walked to the courtyard, relishing the cool breeze of the night. Silver moonlight streamed down from the heavens, shining on the single tree and illuminating the figure beneath.

The tall, proud bearing could belong to no one else, he knew, but something about the tautness of the shoulders suggested something amiss. Murtagh went to her, and she turned, the ethereal light giving her face an unworldly look. Her large, green eyes seemed to shine, and the black leather she wore made her pale skin seem to glow, giving off an angelic aura.

"What troubles you?" Murtagh asked, sensing her agitation. She stared at him, her face guarded, as if wondering whether she could trust him.

"The air is cold with promises of evil," she answered. "I fear our war progresses badly. What if we should not succeed? What if Galbatorix were to rein unchallenged?"

Her normally bland expression changed, her face flowing into an uncertain expression. Doubt was expressed clearly in her eyes, and for the first time since he had met her, Murtagh thought she looked vulnerable. She hesitated for a long moment, seemingly analyzing Murtagh. They were so alike, she realized—both of them concealed their emotions, hid their true feelings, unwilling to trust anyone but themselves. They had both been hurt, their emotional absence stemming from the wounds of their past. She felt a certain kinship with him, two souls of the same brand, and she decided to confide in him.

"I have put so much into this effort." Her voice changed, becoming more expressive, apprehension barely concealed. "When I was twenty, I left Ellesméra to serve the Varden. My mother did not approve, and refused to speak to me. I have spent seventy years working to dethrone Galbatorix, and I have lost much. My relationship with my mother has suffered greatly, and . . ." she paused, surveying Murtagh, as if asking him if he could keep a secret, perhaps regretting her decision, but continuing nonetheless. Taking a breath, she opened up to him, telling him more than she had in a long while. Voice quiet, eyes downcast, she continued. "My best friend and lover, Fäolin, was killed when I was captured by Durza." Though her tone was carefully expressionless, a pained edged was nonetheless evident. "I have lost much that is dear to me in this campaign, and if we were to fail . . . " Her voice trailed off and she turned around, so that her back was to him, but her meaning was clear.

Murtagh looked at her, wondering what to do. Normally so independent, the change in her conduct surprised him—made him hesitate. He wanted to comfort her, but he was unsure if she would allow him.

"Arya," he spoke her name softly. She turned to face him, almost looking for reassurance. He reached out tentatively, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. When she didn't pull away, he slid his hand down to her back, bringing her closer to him.

"Arya," he repeated, noticing how she lifted her eyes to meet his. "Do not worry; we will fight undaunted to the end, and if we fail, we shall have perished for a cause worthwhile." She seemed soothed by his words, for her expression loosened slightly.

"Thank you, Rider," she said gratefully. "You have comforted me and reminded me of what is good in this world."

"Please," he said, her sudden confession prompting him to familiarity, "call me Murtagh."

At this, she looked up, tilting her face up to his as he slowly lowered his head. She stared deep into his dark brown eyes, wondering why he was so unlike his little brother—he was the one person that could truly sympathize with her torment, because he had faced so much of his own.

Faces inches apart, his soft breath chilled her, but made her feel so _alive_. She considered his face, the way his hair fell on his forehead, his full mouth. She had not interacted with any being like this for years—even her actions with Fäolin had been restrained, and she felt slightly traitorous as she studied Murtagh in this new way, as if she were betraying herself by looking upon him as more than an ally in the war. Nevertheless, the attraction between the two was undeniable, and she allowed him to continue, almost curious of what would follow.

She began to feel dizzy, but his arms held her upright and close to him. She half-closed her eyes, preparing herself for his kiss. It was a mistake—behind her lashes, memories of another night, decades ago, deep in Du Weldenvarden flooded her. They were so similar, these two occurrences, but tonight, another man stood before her. Looking at him, his features started to change—blurring, become more delicate. His eyebrows grew slanted, his nose narrower, his hair longer and of a different color. She saw not Murtagh standing before her, his lips reaching for hers, but the last man she had shared an intimate moment with.

"Fäolin," she breathed, suddenly aware of the chilling breeze. The face changed, and the rough features before her did not belong to Fäolin, but to Murtagh. She pulled away, breaking his embrace. "I'm sorry," she told him softly, backing up even further. "I can't." She ran from the courtyard, her long hair streaming behind her.

"Arya!" he called after her, but she did not slow. Quickly crossing the grassy area, she entered the castle, closing the door quietly behind her. A cloud passed over the moon, shrouding the open square in darkness. No sign of Arya remained—only the memory of their closeness lingered in Murtagh's mind.

* * *

The next morning, Eragon was late to the library. Before his arrival, Murtagh and Arya sat in uncomfortable silence, the memory of the previous night fresh in both minds. Finally, the door opened, and Eragon entered. Murtagh cringed, expecting another outburst from his brother, but instead, he appeared humbled. 

Going to Arya, Eragon stood in front of her and twisted his hand over his breast in the elven gesture of friendship.

"Arya Svit-kona," he addressed her, "I would like to apologize for my behavior over the past months. I have pursued you without consideration of your feelings. I been selfish, and I apologize. Will you forgive me?"

Arya studied him for a moment. "Of course, Eragon-elda," she replied. "I forgive you. _Atra nosu waisé fricai_."

Eragon then turned to Murtagh. "And to you Murtagh," he began. "I am sorry for my actions of the past few days. I attacked you unjustly, and I regret it greatly. You are right—you have been through many more difficulties. It was wrong of me to explode as I did. Will you excuse me, brother?"

Murtagh started, surprised at his change of perspective, and shocked by being accepted as a relation. He stared at him, then held out his hand. "Brother?" he asked, forgiveness obvious in the gesture.

Eragon took his hand, gripping it tightly. "Brother," he affirmed.

Over the next several weeks, Eragon, Murtagh, and Arya continued their search. Murtagh and Eragon were back on speaking terms, often spending time together, but Arya separated herself from Murtagh, still painfully aware of what had happened between them.

Finally, they found enough material to safely proceed. Early in the morning, the three of them, as well as Nasuada and Orik, gathered in Nasuada's room, ready to free Murtagh. Because of Galbatorix's incredible power and the strength of the bonds he had placed upon Murtagh, Eragon and Arya were going to link their minds in order to provide the necessary energy. As the strongest, Arya would be channeling the spell.

Murtagh took a deep breath, hoping this would work. Drawing on their combined energy, Arya prepared to speak the opposite of what Murtagh had sworn to Galbatorix in the Ancient Language, which would supposedly release the spell.

"Free Murtagh from the oaths he has sworn," she intoned in the Ancient Language, her brow furrowed. "He no longer serves Galbatorix or the Empire. Release him." She reached out, placing her smooth hand upon his forehead. She felt the energy flow through her and into Murtagh, the powerful current of a river.

For over a minute, this continued, and Arya became alarmed. She was becoming weak, and she saw Eragon lean against the wall, breathing hard as his strength was sapped. Even Saphira's power was dwindling, and Murtagh's bonds showed no signs of breaking.

After half a minute more, Eragon glanced desperately at Arya, telling her with his eyes that his strength was failing. With little hope of completing the task, Arya gently felt for the sworn oaths in Murtagh's mind. Finding them, she nudged them, and felt them give slightly. A small surge of hope came to her, realizing that perhaps the bonds could indeed be broken. Eragon, however, could not give much more without facing death. Realizing what she had to do, she severed the connection between the two of them, so that she was the sole provider of energy.

For forty-five seconds this continued, and Arya grew more and more anxious. She could feel the bonds loosening, but she was unsure if she would have enough magic to completely break them. She contemplated aborting the spell, but did not. Murtagh was a Rider, she reasoned, and free of Galbatorix, he would have much more power than she. Therefore, she continued, furnishing every bit of energy she possessed—sacrificing herself so the Varden could defeat Galbatorix.

Three minutes after she spoke to release Murtagh, the world around her started to blur. She felt the emptiness from the magic she had lost, and she collapsed, losing consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

Once again, thanks _so much_ to those who reviewed! This is the last chapter of the story, so we all know what _that _means . . . somebody's going to get together . . .

Anyway, thanks again for the support!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 5

_She walked through the woods of Ellesméra, feeling the cool moss spring beneath her bare feet. Sunshine streamed through gaps in the ancient trees, and the voices of the plants sang, praising the elves and their wisdom. She smiled, memories of her childhood coming back to her. Overcome with spontaneity, she started to run, laughing with the exhilaration of freedom as she twirled and weaved. She wrapped her arms around a tree and spun about, then let go, waiting to fall and hit the soft forest floor._

_Instead, a pair of strong arms caught her and set her upright. She gasped and spun around to face the person. She was momentarily speechless with shock, then she managed to form words._

"_Fäolin," she breathed, praying that he would not evaporate into the mist. She reached out to touch him, feel him, reassure herself that he was real. It wasn't possible, she reasoned, there was no way he could be there, but against all logic, he was._

"_Arya," he answered, staring deep into her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, briefly feeling awkward as she stood before the man she had not seen for over a year, her hand falling back to her side. Casting her eyes down, she let the uncomfortable silence wash over her. Finally, she felt his fingers brush her cheek, and putting his hand under her chin, he lifted her eyes to meet his. No longer embarrassed, she threw her arms around him, inhaling his scent, remembering her time with him—the pain she had felt when he left her._

"_I have missed you," she told him, letting him support her as she lay her head on his shoulder, rubbing her face on the soft fabric of his tunic. "I have missed you for so long. How have you come to be here?"_

_He made no answer, but held her close for a moment, then pulled back. She raised her head to look at him again, wanting to stay with him forever._

"_Arya," he said seriously. She immediately noticed the change in his voice, the way he seemed slightly pained as his body stiffened. "It is not your time. You need to _live_—to enjoy, to open your heart—love again." At these last words, he gently caressed her face. "You need to move on," he continued. "Let go. I loved you as a part of me, but I . . ." he trailed off, pain obvious on his face, and she understood perfectly. He had died—left her. She remembered the night she had fled Durza, how he had lain on the ground, an arrow protruding from his chest as blood pooled around him. She had mourned silently for him, her sorrow concealed, becoming more involved than ever in her campaign against Galbatorix. Seeing him, standing before her, unharmed, was a huge weight off her shoulders. However, his words alarmed her, and she realized that he would soon leave her once again._

_Perhaps realizing this, he continued. "Find someone, Arya—find someone that will love you and appreciate you for everything you are worth. Find them, and don't let go"_

"_Fäolin—" she started, distressed, but he cut her off. _

"_Find someone," he repeated. An image flashed through her mind, of Murtagh, standing under the tree the night they almost kissed. A pang went through her as she remembered how she had rejected him. Her gaze returned to Fäolin, who seemed to be slowly fading away._

"_Listen to me, Arya," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. The vibrant colors of the forest started washing away at an even greater rate, the bright greens turning to greys. Fäolin's outline became blurred, and his voice grew faint. "Find someone. Let go. _Live_." He drew her close and held her for a moment, then kissed her on the forehead. The last thing she heard was his voice, the words "let go" reverberating through her consciousness, before everything once again went black.

* * *

_

She opened her eyes, trying to let them adjust to the darkness. The echo of "let go" rang in her ears, and she remembered him telling her to love again. She thought of her life, of the frugal existence she had lived the past seventy years, and suddenly, she yearned for something more. She wanted—needed to share her life with someone. Murtagh's face flew in front of her eyes, an image created by her mind in the blackness. They were so alike, the two of them, both of their lives filled with suffering and misery. They both concealed their true selves—hid behind a mask of indifference. She had waited, perhaps her entire life, to find someone that could identify with her so strongly, and she decided to stop—stop waiting for Fäolin, stop waiting for Galbatorix to be defeated, stop making excuses. She was going to take this chance, she told herself—she was going to drop the façade and allow herself to truly _feel_. 

Her new feelings consumed her, and she cried out in the darkness.

"Murtagh," she whispered faintly, her energy still spent. He did not answer, but at her word, a lantern was lit, and the face of the herbalist, Angela, appeared above her.

"You're awake, I see," she said briskly, bending over Arya and examining her. "It took you long enough." At Arya's questioning glance, she added, "You've been unconscious for the last eight hours." She bent over the small table next to Arya's bed and poured a glass of a thick, blue liquid.

"Here, drink it," she ordered Arya, handing her the cup. "It's a sleeping potion: It'll help you to restore some of your energy."

Arya took the concoction and drank, falling instantly into a deep slumber.

* * *

Murtagh sat on the cold stone floor outside the castle's infirmary, eyes bloodshot and hair disheveled. Despite his overwhelming worry for Arya, he was filled with elation. 

She had succeeded in freeing him from his oaths, and he felt light and airy, like a leaf floating on the wind. The weight of his promises had vanished, and for the first time in months, there was no presence lurking in the back of his mind, nudging him to serve. He was incredibly thankful, but his concern for Arya had ravaged him.

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes and sighed. Moments later, he sat up again, hearing familiar voices. Nasuada and Eragon walked around the corner, hand in hand, but stopped when they saw Murtagh. Nasuada looked slightly apprehensive, unsure of how Murtagh would react to her relationship with his brother.

"So," Murtagh commented, eyeing the two. "You got together after all?" He gave Eragon a roguish grin and raised his eyebrows suggestively. Eragon lightly punched him in the arm, laughing slightly.

"You're not angry?" Nasuada asked tentatively, clinging to Eragon's arm. She seemed surprised by his seeming goodwill toward the couple.

Murtagh snorted, shaking his head. "Of course not," he said, then became serious. "Nasuada, I'm sorry for the way I behaved toward you the first night I came. It was wrong, and I meant you no harm. I hope I can repair the damage my actions have caused. I would also like to make a request."

Nasuada raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. "And what would that be, Murtagh?" she inquired.

"Now that I am free from Galbatorix's control," he explained, "I would like to aid in the Varden's quest."

Nasuada's eyes widened at his remark, and she stared, openly speechless, both at his appeal and obvious sincerity. "Of course," she finally replied. "We would be honored for you to join us." She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture.

It was Eragon who finally addressed why they had come. "How is she?" he asked, obviously speaking of Arya. At this, Murtagh sighed.

"Angela won't let me in to see her," he said, his voice colored with concern. "She's been in there for eight hours." Sensing his brother's misery, Eragon patted his shoulder.

"If anyone can survive, it's Arya," he said optimistically, trying to raise Murtagh's spirits, remembering the horrible wounds she had sustained—and endured, at Gil'ead. "She'll come through."

"I hope you're right," Murtagh replied, honesty brimming in every word. It was obvious to both Eragon and Nasuada that he had developed deeper feelings for the elf. "I hope you're right."

"Let us know if there's any news," Eragon requested, taking Nasuada's hand. The two of them surveyed Murtagh intently for a moment, then turned and started to walk away.

"Wait," Murtagh called out to their retreating backs. "I give you my congratulations. You are truly worthy of each other." They smiled at him, obviously pleased to gain his approval, then rounded the corner.

* * *

Arya paced her room, frustration overwhelming her. She had resolved to give Murtagh a chance, but she was nervous. She had forgotten how to reach out—how to connect with someone, and she was afraid he would not accept her. 

Self-conscious, she looked for something alluring to wear. She had been told countless times, by men and elves alike, that she was beautiful—in the back of her mind, she acknowledged that she was indeed attractive. She felt less than striking in the black leather she normally wore, and though she didn't normally concern herself with her appearance, she wanted, just this _once_, to truly act the part of the elven princess, the heir to the throne of Ellesméra. She was going to _live _again, and she didn't want to begin doing so dressed like she was anticipating a battle.

Still surprised at her sudden bout of vanity, she cast her everyday clothes aside and dug deep into her pack, feeling for something else she could wear. Her fingers brushed something silky. Startled, she pulled the garment out of her bag.

She smiled slightly as she surveyed it. It was a sheer white gown, something she hadn't worn in decades. Her first kiss had been wearing this dress, which perhaps explained why she still carried it around with her—a tribute to her first and only love. She studied it for a moment, wondering if she would somehow be disloyal to Fäolin if she wore it with Murtagh. She remembered their conversation when she had hovered between life and death, how he had told her to love again. This was what he had wanted, she reasoned, and tonight, she could make new memories with the dress. Spreading it out on her bed, she decided it would work.

* * *

Her heart leapt slightly as she saw him. She had known he would be here, but the sight of his tall, muscled figure leaning against the tree gave her a burst of adrenaline. She called his name, and he turned to look at her, obviously stunned by her sudden change of dress and demeanor. 

Her voluminous hair cascaded unrestrained over her shoulders, contrasting with the satiny material of her dress. The gown, which she hadn't worn in years, complimented her figure and billowed around her as she walked, creating a goddess-like effect.

She walked to him, stopping when she was only a foot from him. "Murtagh," she began, locking eyes with him and cutting straight to the point. "You have affected me more than any other person in my life. You have paid more attention to me than anyone else, considered me in a way that few others have. Yet, for your feelings, you have not pushed me, not relentlessly pursued me—you have given me space to think, and I appreciate that." She dropped her voice, her tone intense. "We are alike, the two of us. We both avoid our past, deny that we are affected by emotion. But we are, Murtagh, we are. That is why I have come tonight."

She stepped closer to him, and his eyes widened, surprised at her forthright approach when she had rejected him before. "I pulled away from you before," she continued. "I pulled away from you before, but I will not do so now. Let me try again."

At first, he was hesitant, unwilling to let her shun him again. He stared at her, waiting for her to take back what she had just said, but after several long moments, she showed no signs of retracting her request. Slightly overwhelmed that she had come to him, he smiled and pulled her into his arms. His lips found hers, and he kissed her, gently at first, then with more intensity. He parted her lips, and his tongue slipped inside, tasting her, the sweet tang that _was _Arya. She moaned, entwining her long fingers in his hair, pressing her mouth to his, trying to get even closer. Their tongues dueled, playing with each other as both of them explored the other's mouth. His lips left hers and he placed light kisses along her jawline, working his way down her neck. She shuddered in delight as he moved her hair aside, his mouth coming to rest at the nape of her neck. Bringing his mouth back to hers, their tongues continued their dance, as they clung to each together, each overwhelmed by the other's passion. After a long while, they broke apart. Heat radiated from their bodies, and even the chill of the night could not cool their fervor.

"Thank you, Rider," she said, addressing him formally as she buried her face in his neck. He stroked her long, silky hair as he rested his cheek on top of her head. "Thank you for your acceptance."


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys, it's been awhile! The last chapter was originally the end of the story, but several of you wanted a sequel, so I decided to continue the fic. Thanks for your continued support!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

­ 

Chapter 6

Early the next morning, Nasuada summoned Eragon, Murtagh, and Arya to her room. Sitting at the head of the table, a stack of maps before her, the young leader appeared exhausted, dark circles marring her smooth face and her bloodshot eyes plainly speaking of a sleepless night. Motioning the small party to take a seat, she surveyed the three seriously before leaning forward.

"Late last night, one of my sources in Urû'baen contacted me, speaking of Galbatorix's murderous rage," she began, directing her eyes to Murtagh. "It seems he has learned of Murtagh's freedom, and this loss has prompted him to a fury unknown for a hundred years. Now that he has no Riders under his command, he is trying desperately to hatch the third and final egg. At the same time, he is sending his army south—here, to Aberon, where he will try to crush Surda once again. The spy was discovered and our contact severed before I could learn more, but even without the details of his plan, we can be sure that the King's assault will be merciless and brutal."

She paused, tiredly adjusting the papers in front of her before continuing. "If Galbatorix succeeds in hatching the last egg, he will no doubt rigorously train the new Rider in powerful dark magic to compensate for the loss of Murtagh. Even with two Riders, the Varden has little hope against the King and another Rider together. Therefore, we must do everything possible to prevent the egg from hatching with loyalty to Galbatorix. We _need_ the last Rider on our side—thus, we must recover the egg from Urû'baen and bring it to Surda, where hopefully the dragon will chose its one of our own."

Eragon, Murtagh, and Arya remained silent at Nasuada's words, obviously contemplating her statemet and considering how to infiltrate the King's city. Eragon was the first to speak.

"If we are to steal the egg," he questioned Nasuada, "who shall go to Urû'baen to find it? It seems obvious that a small group would be better than an army, for even a large faction would stand no chance against the King, but the task is dangerous, and we can afford to lose few—if any—of our powerful spellcasters."

For the first time, Nasuada seemed hesitant. "I have given much thought to the matter, and I believe I have come to the best decision. I do not wish to put any of you in peril, but you must understand that the war is at stake. Therefore, it seems to me that Murtagh, having grown up in the castle, should have the best chance of navigating Galbatorix's halls and successfully capturing the egg."

Squinting, Murtagh stared at the wall opposite him, deep in thought. "It is true that I know the castle better than anyone else here," he agreed. "But Galbatorix is far too powerful for me alone to break the wards surrounding the egg's chamber. Is someone to accompany me?"

Nasuada appeared troubled. "You are right, Murtagh," she acknowledged. "Alone, you could not possibly hope to penetrate the inner workings of the King. However, I am unsure of your companion. Eragon would undoubtedly be helpful, but perhaps Trianna and some of the more proficient members of Du Vrangr Gata, the Varden's collection of magicians, would serve equally well."

"No," Arya interrupted, speaking for the first time. "I shall go with him. I have a greater command of magic than any of Du Vrangr Gata, and the two of us can fly on dragonback, therefore reaching Urû'baen much faster than a group on horses or foot. Should we fail, you will only lose one Rider, not two, leaving Eragon to aid in whatever remains of the Varden's efforts."

Realizing she spoke sense, Nasuada's expression nevertheless remained worried. "Your idea is indeed logical. Yet, I still fear for your safety. We shall do as much as possible to help you succeed, but in the end, the task shall ultimately fall to you. Give your utmost effort, for our fate lies in your hands."

The importance of their endeavor impressed accurately in both Murtagh and Arya's minds, the four remained in Nasuada's room until late afternoon, discussing the best way to execute the theft. Finally deciding that they would leave as early as practically possible—the following morning—Murtagh and Arya then retreated to their rooms to make preparations for their journey.

* * *

Murtagh scanned his room, looking for anything else he might possibly need. His battered leather pack lay on his bed, filled with various useful items. Deciding he had gathered all of the necessary things, he turned as his door opened. Raising his eyebrows in surprise, he watched as Arya entered the room, her presence instantly filling the small space as she walked toward him. 

"Murtagh," she greeted him quietly. Noticing the confusion on his face and interpreting it correctly, she smiled, a look that made blood rush to his head as he remembered the events of the previous night, what she had told him. Inclining his head in reciprocation, his eyes followed her as she silently took in his room, finally turning to face him.

"You may wonder why I have come," she addressed him, her eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion. "I wish for there to be no awkwardness between us, and I am sorry if I have caused you discomfort. Still, I have shared a part of myself—a part of me that I have not given to anyone for a long time—with you. However informal it may have seemed to you, I cannot pass it off as nothing: you have affected me more than any other person—something I cannot ignore."

Surprised that she would insinuate such a thing as an everyday occurrence, he nonetheless hastened to correct and reassure her. Hoping the sentiments of the previous night had not changed, that she _did_ want him the way he wanted her and that she still thought they were similar, he tentatively took a step to expose his own feelings. "I could not consider my actions with you as anything remotely common—the mere thought of you wipes all such adjectives from my mind." His voice rose earnestly as he surveyed her intensely. Trying to ascertain that his words would not fall upon a cold, closed heart, he continued. "My feelings mirror yours: you mean more to me than all of the people from my past combined. Do not regret what has happened, for my sentiments forbid me to forget the previous events. Please, do not think I deceive you."

His voice brimmed with sincerity, and Arya realized that he was indeed telling the truth—he treasured the memory as much as she did, and wished for the same thing—the return of his affections. Walking toward him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, then placed a light kiss on his lips. His reaction was immediate—pulling her into his arms, he returned the favor, his mouth capturing hers passionately, his tongue caressing hers as she melted his embrace. The room faded from their consciousnesses as their focus narrowed, reveling in the feel of each other. Her fingers wound into his hair, she moaned as he trailed a soft line of kisses down her neck, causing her to shudder in delight. Bringing his lips back to hers, she pressed his mouth closer, a part of her wishing to remain with him forever. Eventually, they broke apart, Arya kissing him a soft goodnight and leaving the room.

* * *

The light of dawn barely reaching Borromeo Castle, Eragon and Nasuada stood together as they watched the retreating speck of Thorn and his passengers disappear into the clouds. Even after wishing the pair good luck and instructing them to contact her as soon as they learned the whereabouts of the egg, Nasuada remained nervous, her worry unnoticed by the rest of the camp, but easily visible to Eragon. 

Hoping to comfort her, he placed an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. She looked up at him, uncertainty clear in her dark eyes.

"Have I done the right thing?" she asked, biting her lip. "I understand that capturing the last egg is essential—however, I do not wish to put our friends in danger. What if they are captured, or killed?"

Eragon considered her seriously for a moment, looking deep into the twin pools of black, then answered. "You have done an admirable thing," he reassured her. "Do not worry, for they are both capable. They will both return, and together, we shall defeat Galbatorix."

Obviously soothed, she leaned in to kiss him, sighing as he held her tightly in a comforting embrace. He kissed her tenderly, her worries vanishing instantly as she lost herself in him. Parting her lips, his tongue slipped inside her mouth, causing her to pleasurably lean into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Allowing herself to briefly give in to the passion between them, she let Eragon drown her with her own emotions. Finally detaching herself from him, she entwined her fingers with his as she walked back into the castle, her confidence and faith restored.

* * *

As darkness fell, Arya and Murtagh set up camp on a small hill three leagues from Urû'baen. Kindling a fire, they ate in silence as Thorn left to hunt, each lost in thought. Eventually, the tension of what they were about to attempt dissipated, and a friendly conversation began. Eager to learn more about her, Murtagh first shared some of his own memories, avoiding the painful or gruesome happenings and speaking only of light or comic remembrances, hoping she would return the act. Surprisingly, she did, speaking of the forest, Ellesméra, and her childhood. He was fascinated—merely listening to her voice enchanted him, and he found himself lost in the tales she told of musical nights beneath the trees and travels through her homeland. He found himself wishing to visit Du Weldenvarden, to meet the queen of the elves, to immerse himself in the exotic nature of the land. His thoughts made him aware once more of his attraction to Arya and how lucky he was that she had freed him from Galbatorix's control. His determination defeat the King and steal the egg flamed to an even greater height, an intense blaze of willpower, and when they abandoned the fire, leaving Thorn to watch during the night, he concentrated on the evil that lay not ten miles away—the city of Urû'baen. 


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks for all the positive reviews! I really appreciate it when you take a couple of minutes to tell me what you thought—I'm glad to hear that you're all still enjoying the story! Sorry for the long wait—I'm on vacation and I haven't had internet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 7

As soon as the first rays of light reached Murtagh and Arya's camp, they arose, preparing to walk the remaining miles to Urû'baen. Cautioning Thorn to keep hidden lest he be discovered by Galbatorix or one of his guards, they made their way to the main road that led to the King's city. Hoping to remain unnoticed, the two kept themselves at an inconspicuous distance from the caravan ahead of them, each wearing a long, rather ragged cloak, as was frequently sported by travelers. Murtagh, aware that he would undoubtedly be noticed if he entered the city without a disguise, wore a fake, scraggly beard that, coupled with the dirt he had rubbed into his hair, made him look a good deal older and almost completely unrecognizable. Arya, hoping to pass for a fortune-teller, as it was not uncommon for them to come to the King's city, wore loose, dark clothes and had wound a brightly patterned scarf around her head, thus hiding her hair and the revealing pointed ears.

After a couple hours' walk, they reached the main gates of Urû'baen. Pausing for a moment, Murtagh stared at the huge, black mass that was Galbatorix's palace. Remembering the torment he had suffered—and more recently—escaped from, he shuddered. He hoped with all his might that they would not be captured, as he had absolutely _no_ wish to be subjected to the King's torture and probing again. They reached the soldiers guarding the entrance to the city and stood before the suspicious eyes, outwardly calm, but overwhelmingly aware of the consequences should they be discovered. Both kept thoughts of their task clear from their minds, as to not attract the eye of Galbatorix, and instead concentrated on neutral images and memories.

The guards, most of whom appeared to be suffering rather vicious hangovers, surveyed Murtagh and Arya blearily for several moments. One of the men, who sported scruffy reddish-brown whiskers, grinned lewdly at Arya, obviously seeing some semblance of beauty beneath her heavy garments. Murtagh felt a growl rising in his throat as he watched the man's vulgar desires flash clearly across his face, but he choked it down, realizing how suspicious it would be if he killed the guard and his comrades. After several moments, the soldiers found no reason to deter Murtagh and Arya from entering, and they were waved through the gate.

Inside, Murtagh breathed a sigh of relief. They had passed that without much trouble, but the magicians in the castle would be infinitely harder to fool. Arya turned to look at him, her guarded eyes and bland expression betraying none of her thoughts. Making a slight gesture with her hands, she beckoned him to follow her into a small, dingy alleyway next to an equally dingy shop. He stepped closer to her, sighing slightly as he inhaled her scent and trying not to look like an infatuated schoolboy. He looked around to make sure no one was paying undue attention to them.

"Let us find lodging," she said softly. "We shall need time to discover the egg's location, and perhaps we can gain information from the local people."

Grunting in agreement, he started off down the street, Arya close behind. Reaching a small, aged building titled "The Golden Hoard," he cautiously opened the door and entered the building, then approached the stout innkeeper.

Leaning across the counter, he spoke in an undertone to the man.

"I need a room for a couple of nights." He shot a furtive glance at Arya and placed some coins on the polished wood, hoping the man would catch onto his act. The innkeeper looked between the two of them, then finally understood.

"Oh," he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning roguishly at Murtagh. Taking the coins, he reached under the counter and extracted a small key, which he passed to his customer. "I'll give room 12 to you and the lady." Inclining his head slightly, he moved on to some men drinking at a table nearby, leaving Murtagh and Arya alone to explore their accommodations.

The room was cramped and dark with a rickety bed shoved into the corner, which Murtagh eyed warily. He had no illusions of sharing it with Arya: though _he _definitely wouldn't mind, he was sure she would express more than a few qualms. Should he then offer to sleep on the floor? Should he go down to the lobby and spend the night there? Should he ask for another room? Was he just completely overreacting?

Shaking his head, he decided to wait until it actually became a problem—likelier than not, Arya would find a tactful way to work things out.

* * *

Several hours later, Murtagh found himself standing next to Arya in the city square, watching as a long line of people, young and old, men and women, made their way past a row of guards, two of which were holding an open wooden chest. Even without seeing the contents, Murtagh knew what was inside: the last of the dragon eggs. Catching Arya's eye, they pushed their way out of the crowd, heading back towards the inn.

* * *

Nasuada's chambers were quiet except for the clink of silverware as the leader of the Varden and the youngest Rider amicably consumed the last of their dinner. The conversation lingered on lighthearted topics, but tension was obvious in the air. Worry for Murtagh and Arya weighed heavily on both minds, though they both tried to conceal it. Silence fell, and both sat in their chairs, neither meeting the other's eye. 

Finally, Nasuada stood, her action prompting Eragon to do the same. Mannerly moving to leave, he took her hand and bowed to kiss it. However, his other arm snaked about her waist and bent her over backwards so his lips landed instead upon hers, his heart leaping at her immediate response.

The heat between them quickly escalated, and Eragon steered her into her bedroom, hastily shutting the door. Pushing her against the wall, his fingers moved to the buttons of her dress, clumsily unfastening them. Ripping the garment off, he tore his mouth away from hers, taking in the sight of her standing before him in only her underclothes. Ravishing her with his eyes, she resumed the contact, gasping as his hands moved down her neck to caress her breasts. Backing towards her bed, she pulled him down on top of her, relishing the weight of his warm body on hers.

* * *

­As dusk approached, the Murtagh and Arya retraced their steps to the square, which was much less crowded. As they had expected, the guards were ready to quit, and were busy securing the egg in the chest. Finally satisfied, they turned toward the castle, speaking loudly of their plans for the night, unaware of Murtagh and Arya trailing behind them. 

The people in question kept an easy distance from the soldiers, dressed as palace servants. Their plan was simple, as were their disguises, Murtagh admitted, but it would be easy enough for them to penetrate the castle, assuming they didn't meet any magicians, or worse, the King himself. Stealing the egg would be the hard part.

Reaching the gate, they were waved through by a pair of watchmen that obviously desired to be somewhere else. Subtly following the egg and its guardians, they walked deeper and deeper into the castle, making their way down deserted corridors until they finally reached a heavy iron door. Ducking into the shadows, they watched as one of the guards pulled a ring of keys from his belt, rifling through them until reaching an ornate black one. Heaving the door open, the guards deposited the chest inside, then carefully locked the exit behind them, gladly returning to the cheerier part of the castle.

Once the sound of their footsteps had died away, Arya and Murtagh stepped into the dim hallway, checking to make sure no one else was around. Approaching the door, Murtagh was surprised that he could sense no wards placed upon the iron, but he assumed they were instead surrounding the chest. Unlocking the door with magic, they stopped, listening for any alarm they could have triggered. Hearing none, they stepped inside the small room, bending down to examine the chest.

Pushing a tendril of thought toward the container, his consciousness was assaulted with an iciness that threatened to freeze his mind itself. Temporarily unable to think, he stepped back, casting a startled glance at Arya. She had obviously experienced the same thing, and they were both aware that this would make their task considerably harder. Neither could not touch the chest without fear of losing their minds, and they had little hope of unlocking it magically. Murtagh supposed that specific guards were designated to carry the egg, and that Galbatorix would make them immune to the spell. However, he had little hope of convincing such a person to help him, and he knew better than to try, for they had most likely sworn an oath to the King in the Ancient Language, much like he had been bound before.

Minutes later, they still hadn't found a way to circumvent Galbatorix's device, and their time was running short. Seeing no other way, Murtagh offered his plan to Arya. She looked less than pleased, but acknowledged that it was perhaps their only option. Reaching out, he lay a tentative finger on the lock. Biting back a gasp as the coldness attacked him, he managed to whisper the words necessary to unlock the chest. He raised a wall around his mind, hoping to block the stabbing force, but it was not enough. As he heard the device click, the chill increased, until his head felt as if it would burst from the pressure. His eyes rolling back into his head, he fell back onto the floor and passed out.

* * *

He awoke to find Arya standing over him, a concerned look on her face. Seeing his eyes open, she smiled and proffered a hand to help him up. Taking it, he unsteadily rose to his feet, then turned suddenly, a questioning look on his features. 

Interpreting him correctly, Arya nodded, and gestured towards the now-empty chest, which lay discarded in the corner of the room. Though she did not speak for fear of being overheard, she confirmed his hopes: she had the egg. Now, all they had to do was escape from the castle and make their way back to the Varden.

Their small moment of victory was interrupted as a huge black shadow passed over them. Looking towards the door, they froze as a savage roar echoed off the stone walls. Murtagh turned to look at Arya, cold fear on his face.

"Shruikan," he whispered hoarsely, speaking of Galbatorix's cursed black dragon. The beast in question stuck his head through the door and shot a jet of bright yellow flame towards the two within. Narrowly missing the fire, they threw themselves against the wall, the heat disconcertingly near. Inching his way toward the door, Murtagh constructed a shield of magic around himself and Arya, protecting them from the flame. Reaching the door frame, he gathered a small ball of energy in his hand and threw it at Shruikan. The dragon, momentarily stunned, withdrew his head. Needing no encouragement, Murtagh and Arya ran through the newly revealed exit and sprinted down the hallway, Shruikan's heavy footsteps and blasts of fire uncomfortably close.

Their fate was sealed, Murtagh thought grimly. There was no way anyone in the castle _hadn't_ heard the infernal racket the King's dragon was making, and they would be lucky if they could make it out of the castle alive. He smiled wryly as he realized that if they were caught with the egg, Galbatorix would take great pleasure in providing them with a slow, painful death. He mentally contacted Thorn and communicated the gravity of their situation, instructing him to meet them outside the gate.

Barreling down the corridors, he caught glimpses of servants, confused looks on their faces as their eyes followed the blurs that were Murtagh, Arya, and Shruikan. Shoving them aside, he bolted toward the closing gate, Arya at his side. He felt a swell of magic around him and looked over to see words on her lips, energy flowing from her as she stopped the gate from closing. Drawing his sword, Murtagh batted the soldiers' weapons away and followed Arya through the gate, which crashed shut behind them as she released it. He saw the uniforms of Galbatorix's army marching out of the castle, no doubt prepared to follow them to the Varden, where they would fight to the death to regain what had been stolen. Rows of archers were taking aim, and arrows flew over Murtagh's head, one of them whistling as it narrowly missed his ear. He reached Thorn and vaulted onto the dragon's back, taking his place behind Arya. Amid the dismayed shouts of the soldiers on the ground, the three of them soared away, over the castle towards Aberon, the final egg tucked safely in Arya's cloak.

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, now I need your help. The Varden has the third egg, but who should it hatch for? I'd rather not create an OC, and I'm leaning toward Roran, but any input would be appreciated. So, tell me what you think! Thanks! 


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 8

Nasuada moaned as Eragon slid his mouth down her body, over her silken undergarments, finally coming to rest on the peaked mounds of her breasts. The feel of his lips sent a shiver of ecstasy through her, and she fumbled with the fastenings on his tunic, hastily pulling it off to reveal his now bare and muscled chest. She ran her hands over the ripples of his abdomen: the feel of the taut skin made her eyes widen as she realized once again what they were doing. She had never gone this far with any other man, and she was conflicted with both excitement and apprehension, though she was glad above all else that her first time would be with Eragon.

Eragon's hands moved to slip off the rest of her clothes, to render her naked. He slowly pulled the silky material down, his breath taken away as his eyes took in her body, inch by inch. Mesmerized, he trailed a finger over her skin, amazed at its softness. Nasuada really was something, he thought, not only smart, but beautiful as well.

Her torso uncovered, she lay gasping on her bed, electricity streaming through her body as she felt his fingers move to completely unclothe her. Not wanting to be outdone, she reached for his belt, unbuckling it and beginning to pull off his pants.

A loud knock sounded on the door, and she sat up, her eyes widening in fear. What if they were discovered? Not only would it be mortifying, but her reputation would be ruined—she would lose all authority over her people. Shakily, she called out to the person.

"Yes?"

"Murtagh and Arya have contacted you," the servant replied, thankfully making no move to open the door. "They are heading back to Aberon, but they wish to speak to you. A mirror has been set up in Trianna's quarters where you can converse with them by magic. They say it's urgent."

Nasuada sighed, relieved that the messenger was apparently unaware of Eragon's presence, but annoyed at Murtagh and Arya. She was glad that they were still alive, but couldn't they have picked a better time? Realizing that the courier was probably awaiting a response, she confirmed that she would be there shortly, then leapt off the bed, hastily gathering her clothes.

As she quickly redressed, watching Eragon do the same out of the corner of her eye, an awkward silence hovered. Now that they had been interrupted, their actions seemed anything but natural, and both were uncomfortable in the other's presence. Smoothing her dress, Nasuada then attempted tame her hair, critically surveying herself in the mirror to make sure she was presentable. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen, though she hoped it wouldn't be noticed in the hustle of the night.

She strode down the halls of the castle, Eragon close behind but silent, making her way to Trianna's rooms. Knocking on the door, she entered, then sat at the table where Angela, Orik, Orrin, and Trianna were gathered, Eragon taking a place beside her. She noticed the conniving looks the sorceress was sending Eragon and she felt a surge of jealousy course through her, and she wished suddenly that she could expel her from the Varden and leave her to fend for herself. Biting her lip, she turned to the mirror where Arya's image was projected, Murtagh behind her, both of them clearly riding on Thorn. Worry was expressed on both faces, though when Arya spoke, her voice was controlled, if unreadable.

"Our journey was successful," she began, and Nasuada felt a rush of hope as she realized what this meant. With a third Rider, they could defeat Galbatorix and be free of his reign forever. Her attention snapped back to Arya, who resumed speaking. "However, before we could escape the castle, we were discovered by Shruikan, who undoubtedly alerted the King."

Murtagh leaned forward, a scowl disfiguring his features. "What Arya means," he interrupted rudely, "is that Galbatorix has sent his entire army after us, which will reach Aberon in about a week. The egg won't be of any use if we all die before we can get it to hatch."

Arya frowned slightly, but said nothing about Murtagh's comment, sympathetic to his distress and nervousness. "You should prepare," she advised Nasuada. "Surda does not have enough supplies to equip the Varden for such a large conflict, and the Empire will be watching tirelessly for any sign of movement back to Tronjheim. We will not survive if we remain at Aberon."

"You are right," Nasuada replied, recognizing the truth of her words. "But we have nowhere else to go. We have no hope of moving our army to Du Weldenvarden without being attacked and slaughtered, the Hadarac Desert has no means of support, and everywhere else is a house of the Empire."

The room fell silent for several moments as everyone considered and discarded various locations. Finally, Murtagh spoke.

"I have an idea," he said slowly, "but it will be risky. If everywhere in Alagaësia is under the control of the Empire, why not take to the sea and travel to Vroengard? It is a ruin, true, but it still has the capacity to support us. And, more importantly, Galbatorix will not expect it and it will take him some time to transport his entire army, whereas we will already be stationed and prepared. We already have the aid of the dwarves—" he directed his gaze toward Orik, "—and I expect the elves would help us as well, if we were to send a messenger."

Nasuada, ever practical, immediately found a problem with his plan. "But how are _we_ to move _our_ army before Galbatorix reaches Aberon?" she enquired. "We have no ships, save for the one Roran Stronghammer traveled here with, and that will not be nearly enough. It would take weeks to build others, and we have not the time."

For the first time, Orrin spoke up. "As the King of Surda," he said, puffing his chest out importantly as he announced his title, "I will make sure every able-bodied man, woman, and child works on your ships. With all the labor we have to offer, we shall have them done before Galbatorix's army reaches the border."

Eragon, though slightly dubious of Orrin's promise, nonetheless volunteered his approval of the offer. "If Orrin can pull together the necessary supplies and workers, I don't see why Murtagh's idea wouldn't work," he ventured. "It certainly will have the element of surprise, and it will give us the time we desperately need."

Nasuada sighed, then nodded. "Very well," she spoke finally. "To Vroengard we shall travel."

* * *

Arya and Murtagh landed the next day, and were greeted by the cheers of what seemed to be most of the population of Aberon. Nasuada stepped out from among them, her arms spread in a gesture of welcome. 

"Since we have so little time," she began, "I thought we should have everyone touch the egg now, in hopes that it will hatch before we leave so we may have more time to train the new Rider. That is why I called so many people here."

Murtagh and Arya, understanding clear on their faces, helped usher everyone into a line so they could all touch the egg. Once everyone was arranged in a somewhat orderly fashion, Arya reached into her cloak, pulling out the stolen valuable. As it became visible, the crowd gasped, obviously in awe as they gazed at the dark green shell laced with marble-white veins. Arya placed it on a small table that Nasuada had brought out, then signaled the people to move forward. One-by-one, they passed by, each reverently laying a hand on the smooth surface, no doubt hoping _they_ would become the next Rider. And so they waited, looking for some sign that the egg was hatching.

* * *

Several days passed, and considerable progress was made on the construction of the ships. The three large, wooden skeletons began to take shape, and concern now shifted to the state of the egg. It still showed no sign of hatching, and Eragon began to worry if it was going to choose one of the Varden as its Rider. He had watched all afternoon as hordes of people touched it, but nothing had happened. Now, dusk was approaching, and he prepared to take the egg back to the castle, where it would be safely locked away for the duration of the night. 

"Hey, cousin." The words made him smile, and he turned to see Roran walking towards him, coming to rest at the small table. "Amazing, isn't it, the way these things work out? Who would have ever guessed that stone you found in the forest was a dragon egg?" He tapped the white veins experimentally, raising his eyebrows at the ringing sound that ensued. "And yet, here we are, on the run from the Empire with a stolen dragon egg, preparing to fight Galbatorix!"

Eragon nodded, then his face hardened at the memory of Garrow. Roran, perhaps sensing this change, looked back down at the egg, then took a sharp intake of breath. Eragon, hearing the noise, directed his gaze toward the stone, his eyes widening in astonishment as he watched cracks appearing in the shell. The egg started rolling and dropped off the table, a small part of the armor-like covering coming off. A spiny, forest-green head poked out.

Eragon froze. Had the egg really hatched for Roran? Was his cousin to be the next Rider? It was hard for him to believe, but if the dragon had chosen him, who was to change anything? Roran bent down to pick up the small creature, but he let out a yelp when he touched it. He turned to Eragon, a surprised and rather pained expression on his face.

"It _burned_ me!" he said, his voice resentful as he held out his right hand, displaying the silver marking that had formed on his palm.

"It's alright, you can touch it," Eragon told him, watching as Roran reached down, cautiously picking up the dragon and setting it on the table. "The white mark is called the gedwey ignasia: all Riders have it. It will glow when you perform magic."

A look of alarm crossed Roran's face. "What's it doing now?" he asked, his voice bordering panic. "There's something touching my mind! It's almost like it's talking to me!"

Eragon smiled, remembering how he had felt when Saphira had first hatched. "That's your way of communicating," he explained. "Soon, it will learn how to speak, and the connection will grow stronger."

"This is incredible!" Roran exclaimed. "The last dragon hatched for _me_!"

Eragon grinned. "Family legacy, eh?"

Roran snorted. "Don't get me started."

* * *

With the egg finally hatched and the ships nearly finished, Eragon prepared to travel to Ellesméra and speak to the Queen of the Elves, hopefully enlisting her support. Though he didn't tell Nasuada or the others, he also planned to visit the Menoa tree in hopes of fulfilling Solembum's prophecy, now that Zar'roc was securely strapped to Murtagh's waist. 

Trusting Murtagh and Arya to train Roran in the ways of magic and fighting, and promising Nasuada that he would return in time to travel with the Varden to Vroengard, he gathered the few things he would need and mounted Saphira, the two of them becoming a tiny black speck as they soared away over Surda, heading to the enchanted forest of Du Weldenvarden.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Hey everyone, I know it's been _forever_ since I've updated, so all I can say is that I'm very sorry for the hideous wait, and I hope to make it up to you with a rather long chapter—I apologize if it's not quite up to par. All that aside, I'm back now, and I intend to finish this story shortly. A big thanks to everyone who has stuck around!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any of the characters.

* * *

Chapter 9

Eragon sighed and ran a hand through his rather dusty hair. He and Saphira had been traveling for the past four days straight, and were just now reaching the southern border of Du Weldenvarden. The forest loomed before them, dark and ominous, and Eragon cautiously prepared to enter. Remembering their previous welcome, he gripped his borrowed sword and reached out with his mind, searching for unwelcoming or hostile presences. Unsurprisingly, the protective magic surrounding the forest deterred him, and he resigned himself to walking in normally.

They had not gone ten paces inside the forest when shadowy figures sprung from the trees, and Eragon and Saphira found themselves surrounded. With unerring arrows lethally fixed upon him, Eragon spoke out clearly:

"_Eka aí friai un Shur'tugal!" _He felt several consciousnesses examining his mind, and he allowed them to see information and memories that would identify him as the Rider Eragon. After several moments, the probes retreated, and the figures stepped forward into the light.

"Shadeslayer!" one exclaimed. "We did not realize you would visit again so soon! What brings you to the forest?" A tinkling laugh sounded, and Eragon felt a brief moment of wonder as he once again marveled at these creatures.

"I have come to speak with Islandazí," he replied. He had decided not to mention the new Rider until first speaking with the elves' leader, where he would also ask for assistance. He smiled at the small group, assuring them he meant no snub by not elaborating.

They smiled back. "Then to the queen we shall travel," was the merry reply.

* * *

Islandazí sat with her advisors, an imposing, but beautiful, figure. Greeting her reverentially, Eragon likewise acknowledged her companions, lingering on the white-haired Oromis, then dived directly into the matter.

"As you may be aware," he began, "a week ago, Murtagh and Arya infiltrated Galbatorix's castle, managing to steal the third and final egg." A slight rustling noise was heard, and several of the elves looked at him in amazement. "The egg has hatched, and the new Rider is being trained as I speak. However, Murtagh and Arya did not manage to escape the castle completely—Shruikan discovered them in the act, and Galbatorix is now sending all of his forces to Surda, where he intends to crush any who oppose him. Orrin has shown remarkable resourcefulness in the building of three great ships, in which we will transport everyone up the Jiet River, eventually landing at Vroengard. Thus, we will lure Galbatorix from the comfort of Alagaësia to a place filled with haunting memories, where we hope to finally defeat him."

An impressive silence hung in the air after these words, and the elves stared at him intently. Eragon felt Islandazí's probing eyes upon him as she spoke.

"This is news indeed, Shadeslayer," she said gravely. "But surely you have not come all the way to Du Weldenvarden merely to tell us this?"

Eragon smiled inwardly. The elven queen was nothing if not perceptive. "No, I have not," he admitted. "Even with the arrival of the dwarves, we are still greatly outnumbered by the Empire. I have come to ask the aid of the elves, and direct any who will join us."

Islandazí nodded, and Eragon realized she had known his true reason for coming all along. "Very well, Shadeslayer," she responded. "I shall make the announcement tonight that any who wish to join the final fight against Galbatorix shall meet the Varden and dwarves in Vroengard. Rest assured that your call shall not go unanswered."

Eragon smiled, and turned to leave. Islandazí, however, was not finished.

"But what of the traitor Murtagh?" she asked, and Eragon felt his blood run cold at the mention of his brother. "You speak of him as though he never betrayed you, and entrust him with a mission of great importance."

Eragon sighed, hoping the queen would understand the reason for Murtagh's treachery. Briefly, he explained the events that had occurred after the Burning Plains, starting with the breaking of Galbatorix's oath and ending with the successful capture of the egg, though he left out the details of Murtagh and Arya's relationship. Throughout the explanation, Islandazí listened attentively.

"Then I ask you this," she said. "Do you, Eragon Shadeslayer, trust him?"

Memories flashed through his mind—Murtagh saving him from the Ra'zac, carrying Brom's body up the sand spire, fighting Urgals in Tronjheim, showing the horrible scar across his back and revealing his identity as Morzan's son. The abyss into which they thought he had fallen, bloodied clothes at the top of the cliff. The Red Rider at the Burning Plains, beating back every attempt to rid the world of evil, finally removing his helmet to reveal himself.

Murtagh, telling him they were brothers.

"Yes," he replied softly. "With my life." With that, he bowed respectfully, then turned and left the room.

* * *

The sound of clashing blades and deep grunting filled the electric air of Aberon. Two figures, raising dust as they fought, circled each other, while a small crowd looked on. Their swords glinted in the bright sun, and heat radiated from them as one skillfully parried and counterattacked the other.

Murtagh squinted and shook his hair from his eyes, readying himself against another attack. At Eragon's request, he had taken over Roran's weaponry training, though he was often reduced to anger and frustration. Roran, it seemed, still mistrusted Murtagh for his betrayal, though Murtagh suspected that much of the resentment sprang from knowledge of his father, Morzan. Murtagh had tried his best to come across as friendly, if only for Eragon's sake, but he found it impossible to continue this pretense, as every word he spoke was answered with monosyllables and nods. Even worse, the accusatory glances constantly sent in his direction blamed him for everything, from the continued survival of the King to the death of Roran's father.

Snarling, he fiercely parried the other Rider's blade, then swung at him with such force that he knocked Roran's weapon away. Dropping his own sword, he roughly shoved the Green Rider, knocking him to the ground in a dusty pile. Ignoring the indignant sputtering sounds from the fallen human, he picked up his blade, slammed it into his sheath, and stalked off toward the castle in a mindless rage.

Reaching his quarters, he quickly changed his clothes, swearing as he scraped his finger on a sharp edge of his pack. Preparing to leave, he gasped as a hand was lightly placed on his shoulder, then whirled around, only to come face to face with Arya. She smiled softly, and Murtagh felt himself relax slightly.

They had not spoken since their trip to Urû'baen—indeed, the only place Murtagh had seen her was instructing Roran in the ways of magic. While frustrating to him, he understood that as an elf, Arya lived unhurriedly, and most likely had no desire to rush their relationship. Respecting her, Murtagh had stepped back, allowing her to dictate the terms of their meetings, though he often found himself desiring more than was offered.

Surprisingly, she grabbed his hand, and together they left Murtagh's room. Walking quickly and silently through the castle's halls, she led him into the darkening outdoors, to the courtyard, he realized, where she had first kissed him. She stood with him under the tree, and finally broke her silence.

"Why must you be so hard on him?" she asked quietly. Murtagh's stomach fell as he realized she was talking about Roran. Why did she bring _him_ into it, ruining their first moment alone since their hair-singing escape?

He sighed, the hard lines returning to his face. "I look at him, and he hates me," he answered, anguish twisting his voice. "He hates me for serving Galbatorix, even though it was the last thing I wanted. He hates me for being Eragon's brother, which I did not learn until months ago." He gulped, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "He hates me for being Morzan's son." He lowered his eyes to the ground, the shame of something not his fault enveloping him.

Arya looked sharply at him, unidentifiable emotions swirling in her eyes. She answered in her low, musical voice. "And yet, when I look at you, I do not see an evil, worthless being. I see a Rider with a tortured past, who nevertheless dares to hope for a better world."

He raised his head, and was met with a small smile. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he inhaled her familiar scent. Tilting her head, she kissed him softly, and he felt his worries and insecurities fade away into nothingness. He wanted to stay with her like this forever, safe from Galbatorix and his past, safe from the horrors he had suffered. However, he realized that moments like these would not exist if Galbatorix survived, and his resolve strengthened. No matter the cost, Galbatorix must be defeated, and upon his life, he would see that it happened.

* * *

Eragon stepped into the cool air of Ellesméra, anticipation building inside him as he walked toward the Menoa tree. Solembum's words had tormented him mercilessly since his return to the elven city, and tonight, he hoped to discover their meaning.

Upon reaching the clearing, he stopped. The vast tree moved on its own, soft whispers filling the air. He moved forward, entranced, searching the base of the tree for any indication of a weapon. Finding none, he reached out with his mind, once more amazed at the tree's immense presence.

A small glimmer in his mind caught his attention. Probing gently, he felt something cool, sharp, and imposing—a sword. Curiosity overwhelmed him—surely, this was what Solembum predicted!

Summoning his magic, he spoke to the tree and the clearing. _"Sword, come to me." _The Ancient Language lingered impressively in the air, and Eragon waited for something to happen. He was just about to give up when slowly, a shining shape moved through the air toward him, coming to rest at his feet.

Bending down, Eragon looked in wonder at the weapon. The sword was of purest white, with words of an unknown language twisting up the blade. The hilt was set with a stunning, opalesque gem, which seemed to radiate light. Reverently, he picked up the sword, gasping as vivid images flashed through his mind. He was riding a dragon, alongside many others, a rainbow of shimmering light in the air. He watched as his kindred were slain, one-by-one, by the Forsworn. He was sitting on a council with other Riders, denying a young and distraught Galbatorix a second dragon. He fought the same Galbatorix, now older, hardened, with a new black dragon at Vroengard, but hesitated in striking the final blow. He fled to Utgard, greatly weakened, but Galbatorix found him—all was lost. He tried to defend himself, but the younger Rider showed no mercy.

The air rushed back into Eragon's lungs as he comprehended what he had seen. He looked down at the blade—there was no doubt in his mind that this was Vrael's sword. How it came to be under the Menoa tree in the elven forest was a mystery to him, but he knew this was the prophecy Solembum had spoken of.

A rustle above his head caused him to look up. Blagden, the white raven, perched on one of the tree's thick branches. "_Wyrda_," the bird cawed in its grating voice.

Eragon once more surveyed his new weapon. "_Wyrda_," he named it.

* * *

The cool salt breeze refreshed the people of Surda as they stood on the decks of the three ships journeying to Vroengard. They had been traveling for the past week, and were now passing Teirm, where they would then enter the open sea. Though constantly vigilant, nothing had been spotted during their travels to cause alarm.

A black speck was seen on the horizon, growing larger as it came ever closer. Quickly, it was identified as the Rider Roran, mounted upon the green dragon christened Mor'ranr, or peace. They were flying at breakneck speed toward the leading ship, where Eragon scanned the horizon. Landing rather clumsily, Roran jumped hurriedly off his dragon, panting with either excitement or distress.

"Urgals," he panted. "In Teirm. They are planning to attack us with catapults of fire. Galbatorix sent them, no doubt."

Eragon surveyed his cousin gravely, then quickly summoned all able-bodied men to the decks while ushering the women and children into the cabins. Drawing Wyrda from its sheath, he was joined by Nasuada, Murtagh, and Arya, who had similarly grim expressions on their faces. They watched the passing city closely, waiting for any sign of enemy fire.

Indeed, as soon as the ships passed directly in front of Teirm, a huge fireball sped toward them, narrowly missing and plunging into the ocean feet away. The rebels wasted no time in returning fire, though arrows were no match for the Urgals' powerful catapults.

Reaching out with his mind, Eragon quickly located the operator of one of the catapults, and used magic to kill him instantly. The ship shook with the impact of flaming stones, fire and wood alike raining down around Eragon, but he paid them no heed, concentrating instead on killing the opposing force.

Soon, the ships passed out of range, and the fiery rain ceased to reach them. Eragon left his post at the rail and surveyed the mess around him. None had been lost, though several were injured, and the ship had suffered some damage. The two other ships still followed, and he quickly spotted Murtagh and Arya, working among the wounded. A slight pang of panic struck him as he realized the missing figure. Where was Nasuada?

He did not look far. She leaned against one of the masts, her chest heaving as she clutched at her stomach. From where he stood, he could see blood seeping through her hands, and he hastened to her. Her eyes were filled with pain as she looked at him.

"My Lady, you are wounded." He gazed at her concernedly, trying to estimate the extent of her injuries. "Let me heal you." Carefully, he scooped her into his arms, and carried her to her chambers, gently depositing her on the bed.

* * *

The gash on her stomach was easily healed, but Eragon's attention not as easily diverted. He brushed his hand lightly over the now smooth skin, enjoying their closeness. Worry plagued him, however, as he considered the final leg of their journey. What if he should not survive the final encounter with Galbatorix? Or what if Nasuada was taken from him? His stomach churned at the thought of being parted from her forever, though he was careful not to concern her as well.

A glint from the candlelight caught his eye. Looking down, he saw Brom's ring on his finger, the only tangible memory he had of the man. Islandazí had instructed him to keep it, naming him an elf-friend, and he valued it greatly—like the woman before him. Slipping it off his finger, he impulsively slid onto the floor, making Nasuada sit up in surprise. Kneeling before her, he offered her himself.

"Nasuada," he began, speaking as an intimate friend—indeed, a lover. "Since we met, I have respected you as a strong, capable woman. I knew your father, and felt the same admiration toward him that I now direct at you. But, what is more, I have come to value you as a sensitive, understanding friend. I cherish the time we spend together, and long for you when we are apart." He offered her the ring in his upturned palm.

"Will you share your life with me?" She gazed at him in amazement, tears filling her eyes. Slowly, a slender hand reached out, taking the proffered ring and sliding it onto her finger. Eragon stood, and took her in his arms. She looked at him, the tears now streaming down her cheeks.

"Of course, Eragon," came her soft reply, her voice seeping with emotion. "I should desire nothing else."

This time, when he kissed her, it was more than a symbol of comfort or love—it was a kiss of promise.

* * *

On the deck of the ship, Arya finished healing the last injured man, and stood, only to find Murtagh close beside her. She was weary, and her bones ached with worry of what was to come. She tired of spending so much time with humans and their peculiarities, and longed for the company of other elves and wisdom. The attack had taken its toll on her, and she doubted the outcome of the final battle.

Murtagh, perhaps sensing her carefully concealed distress, offered her a hand of comfort. Taking it, she stood by him, both of them silently watching the sea.

Finally, he addressed her. "Arya," he began. "I was with Eragon when he rescued you from Gil'ead, and later when you fought with us at Tronjheim. Returning to the Varden after being imprisoned by Galbatorix, you freed my from my oaths—saved me from a torment worse than death. As I grew to know you, I became entranced by you—I _am_ entranced by you."

Arya's eyes narrowed slightly, and she wondered where he was going with this. Was it a profession of love, similar to the ones Eragon had uttered in Ellesméra? Wordlessly, she listened, and he continued.

"I realize my identity as a son of Morzan, and that I will always be a traitor in the hearts of many." His face twisted in pain at these words, though he took a deep breath. "They may hate me, but you, Arya, have looked past my parentage and seen something good. You have not let appearances deceive you, and for this, I am utterly grateful. I ask you, Arya Svit-kona, after this war is over, and Galbatorix lies defeated, will you bind yourself to me?"

Her eyes widened in shock. Seventy years of living among humans had not prepared her for this. Elves had no such thing as marriage; they chose a partner and remained together as long as they wished—commitment was hardly ever permanent. She had loved Fäolin, yes, but made no promises to spend her life with him. She was close to Murtagh, cared deeply for him, even, but to bind herself to him for all eternity?

Murtagh was doubtless ignorant of elvish customs, but anger flared inside her nonetheless, spurred further by her tiredness. Who was he to claim her as his own? Squarely meeting his gaze, she proudly raised her head, her hair rippling in the salty breeze, and did as she was known to do: overreacted.

"Do not tarnish me with your human ideals," she said, rather harshly. "I am not one of your maidens to share your bed and keep your house. When this is over, I shall return to Ellesméra and live with my people—not act as your wife."

Having thoroughly spurning him, she turned and walked haughtily to her cabin, leaving him on the deck—cold and utterly alone.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, that's all done with, but now I have another question for you all. The final battle will be in the next chapter, but I find myself in a dilemma: who should kill Galbatorix? So, drop me a line, either in a review or elsewhere, and I will start working on the next chapter. Once again, thanks everyone!


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